


a life with birds

by Quillium



Series: Dr. Wayne AU [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Dissociation, Dr. Wayne AU, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, that makes it sound super dark but i SWEAR this is a cute fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23815546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillium/pseuds/Quillium
Summary: “You are the heir to the demon head, I know,” Wayne says, softly, “I just—if it wasn’t already chosen for you. If you could have anything you wanted, any life you wanted. What would you want?”Damian—of course he wants his inheritance, as is his duty, as is his right—ORIn a world with Bruce decided to be a doctor, Damian al Ghul still finds his way to the Waynes.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Series: Dr. Wayne AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715896
Comments: 47
Kudos: 409





	a life with birds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Freakin' Me Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23799034) by [goldkirk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldkirk/pseuds/goldkirk). 



> Y'ALL. I don't even know if this story is coherent? I wrote it in bits and pieces and there was so much more I wanted to add but it was already at 10k and a monster but like I just. I had so much fun with this. Thank you so much to goldkirk for letting me play with your AU in your sandbox--OH I should explain. So in this world, Bruce went travelling the world, trained a bit at the League, but then decides that violent path is not for him and becomes a doctor. Batman still exists but it's softer, kinder--he's not a fighter, really, he spends more time with street kids, looking out for the defenseless in a gentler way. His kids meet him in different ways and they don't really become crimefighters (or at least are banned until they're like 18) but still have Robin as like, a way for them to meet the street kids and help them and such? But they don't fight. It's a more peaceful world.

There is a man, crouching by his target’s side, speaking rapidly on the phone and occasionally checking the stump where her arm used to be.

The target, eyes closed, forcing her breath to stay even, is going to survive this. She will be fine. She might even still dare to continue to spill secrets that aren’t her’s to spill.

And it’s all Damian’s fault, for being too weak. For cutting off her arm instead of her head. For not wanting to hurt—

Grandfather will be furious. Damian’s not going to be allowed to visit the animals anymore.

 _Compassion_ , Grandfather always tells him, _is for the weak_.

He’s always been disappointed in Damian. And here’s just—further proof. That he’s right. Because Damian spared a target he could have easily killed, and Damian is sitting on the rooftop, watching the man crouched by his target when he should—

What?

He could kill the man. Kill his target. Silence them both, destroy the cell phone, erase any evidence that he was there, it would be easy—

His stomach churns.

His first mission and he can’t even do that right.

A simple mission and he can’t even do that right.

His target used to tell him stories while she taught him to fight. She’d sing songs to him when they lifted weights. She was the one who first gave showed him a puppy, taking a break from her mission and winking at him.

Damian thinks she probably would have let him kill her.

That makes him all the weaker. She didn’t even try to fight back, just kissed his forehead and said _do what you must_ , her accent strange as ever.

Damian tells himself the man is the reason he failed. That he would have succeeded if not for the man.

It isn’t true.

Damian finds himself putting his sword aside, sliding down the pipe, and going to the man as he asks quietly, “Will she be okay?” knowing full well the answer, if Damian doesn’t act.

“Yes,” the man says, glancing up at him, “Do you know her?”

If Damian were good, he would say _such things do not matter_ , he would smile wide and pull out his sword, he would run the man through and not blink an eye.

Instead, he kneels down and places a hand on her knee and tries to swallow his _sorry_ , says, “Yes,” and thinks by the saddened look that his target gives him, that she understands.

“An ambulance is coming,” the man says, “You can ride with her, if you’re family.”

“He’s my son,” his target says.

It’s a lie. She knows that. This is why he was sent to kill her—she got too attached to him, she placed him above Ra’s, and she fled, betrayed to organization, betrayed _Ra’s_ , for his sake—

His mother is Taila al Ghul. His mother is strength and venom and a sharp _get up, this is not enough_.

This woman is a soft smile between fights, a hand stretched out to help him up, _you like animals?_

Damian does not dispute her. Something weak and soft in him compels him to stay silent.

“Ah,” the man says, and then, apologetically, “You should not have to see this.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Damian says, quiet, cold, stomach flipping.

He wants to hold onto this, before he goes back.

The man reaches out and holds Damian’s hand, “It will be okay,” he promises in a low, steady tone.

That’s not true.

Even worse: Damian feels comforted by those words.

__

Is finding a woman missing an arm bleeding in an alley the way Bruce expected to end his 12 hour work shift? No. Absolutely not.

Is going _back_ to the hospital after his _twelve hour work shift_ something Bruce would ever want or dream of having in even his worst nightmares? _Absolutely not_.

Is that what he’s doing right now, because the woman had a ten year old “son” and Bruce was remind of _his_ kids and felt compelled to stay and comfort the kid?

Take three guesses.

Bruce is so tired.

It will be okay? _It will be okay?_??

Bruce is a surgeon, not a public speaker.

Bruce isn’t stupid. The kid’s palm had no blood on it but the fold between his thumb and index finger did? The woman’s cut was jagged in the middle, like the cut was done by momentum instead of brute strength? The fact that the kid sneered but accepted the shock blanket?

Bruce will hold off on confrontation, though. He has more important things to do.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he asks, leaning back and tipping his head against the wall, “Seeing people hurt. I see it every day and I still hate it.”

The kid is stiff and doesn’t respond.

“I know what you’re probably thinking,” Bruce makes his laugh self-deprecating, hoping that it makes the kid loosen up a bit, “I should get used to it, right? To do my job better. But I think a doctor without compassion is no good, really—might as well replace me with a robot, then.”

“Robots aren’t precise enough yet,” the kid says.

“That’s true,” Bruce smiles. He’s so tired, “You have anything you want to be when you’re older?”

A shift, the kid frowning, “Not particularly.”

“Mm,” Bruce hums, “That’s okay. I never really wanted to be a doctor as a kid, either. You’ll end up where you’re meant to be.”

The kid scowls.

Bruce thinks his words must sound like platitudes—empty little nothings.

Well. He’s never been that good with kids, really. He’s just tried his best, and somehow his kids ended up good.

What does he do? Should he stop talking? Leave the kid alone?

“Would you like to learn how to disinfect a wound?”

He sees the kid’s lips pull back into a sneer, that moment of thought before he answers, he can practically see _all knowledge is useful_ , and then a begrudging, “If that’s what you want, I wouldn’t oppose it.”

 _Ra’s_ , Bruce thinks, cold, angry, of course Ra’s is stooping so low as to send out child soldiers—

(Some days Bruce thinks of what Batman could have been, of how Bruce could have stayed with Ra’s, trained with him, maybe even took him down but Bruce has never wanted to be a violent man and the Batman of now, gentler, kinder, is what he wanted and he knows but—)

“Okay,” Bruce says, calmly, “So the first thing to do is check the wound. If it’s a very serious wound, then some disinfectants, like hydrogen peroxide, can actually aggravate it more, so you have to identify what type of disinfectant is most effective for the type of wound—“

__

Damian doesn’t know why the man stays, or why he decides to start teaching Damian about medicine. A little bit into an impromptu lesson about how to identify and respond to a heart attack, a nurse comes out and says to him, “Your mother’s stable, now.”

Damian shoots up to his feet and the man smiles at him a bit before saying, “Let’s go in, then, shall we?”

Damian’s by his target’s side as she looks at him, and she reaches out and holds his hand with her remaining arm. Comfort? Condemning him? Anger? Grief?

He wishes he could read emotions as easily as he could body language in a fight.

Damian wasn’t made for emotions, though.

“Mr. Wayne,” she breathes, softly, glancing at the man behind Damian, “This is the one.”

Is she talking to Damian? What does that mean? What is she trying to—

“You were Talia’s friend,” the man says. He still sounds calm.

Damian feels his heart try to break its way out of his chest—this man knows his mother? Knows _Damian_? Is he a spy, here to report back on Damian’s—was it a mistake—did he fail some test—

“Mm,” she smiles at Damian, “It would have been better if you had raised him. He’s yours.”

A sharp inhale. Damian prepares for the inevitable anger.

 _Damian_ is—his mother had always told him that his father was a disappointment. That he could have been stronger, but let compassion weaken him. That he chose not to fight, not to train, and left their world instead.

So he’s not a spy?

Damian’s head blares with a thousand thoughts. He’s angry. Hurt.

His target is missing an arm.

She’s not his target.

He should kill her.

He’s tired of bloodshed.

“Bruce Wayne,” the man, his father, says.

Damian is silent.

“That’s my name. You don’t have to give me yours… I understand if you want nothing to do with me.”

Damian squeezes his hand around his target’s hand. Seeking reassurance? Weak.

Damian has always been weak. Maybe it’s his father’s blood. Bruce Wayne’s blood.

“You should go with him,” his target says, “He can protect you.”

“I don’t need protection,” Damian says, “I am the al Ghul heir.”

“He can buy you a dog,” his target says, “However many dogs you want. He has a garden—I’m sure some birds go there, so you can draw them. He keeps these bats that he feeds—ridiculous if you ask me, but—“

“Stop it,” Damian says. He wants it to be a command but it comes out weak, pathetic.

“I need a knife,” his target says.

“No,” his father says, sharp, angry, “I can—“

“You take Damian,” she says, pulling her hand away, “I would rather this than whatever Ra’s would do to me.”

Damian knows what she did there. She gave his father Damian’s name—and his mother always said that names held power.

“I can—“

“You can’t.”

“I’m not going with him,” Damian says.

“You think your grandfather will forgive my life? You think he’ll accept you sparing me?”

“It’s a warning. It’s—“

“It’s weakness, in your grandfather’s eyes. Just like you sparing that bird hat used to sing in your room.”

Damian knows she was the one to kill it. He knows that she pretended that he did it, for his sake. He’s still angry, that she did that.

“I want five dogs,” he says to his father, storming out of the hospital room.

His father, trailing after him, asks, “Does this mean you plan to stay?”

Damian says, sharply, “ _No_.”

“Then will you take the dogs with you, when you leave? Or do you plan to abandon them? That would be quite unkind to the dogs, you know.”

Damian shoves his hands in his pockets and says, angrily, “One dog. An old one, that will die soon.”

His father is silent. Damian can hear nothing but his steps, light taps behind him despite his father’s size.

Damian swallows back the anger and urge to scream that rises in his throat. It has never done him any good before, and he fears it will do him worse now, without his mother’s protection.

__

Dick’s coming back from a shift at Gotham PD when he sees it. A small, new pair of shoes, with blood splattered over the front.

His stomach churns and as he moves to the kitchen, he yells, “Bruce, is there something you want to tell me?”

“Maybe if you’d give me a chance,” Bruce says, raising an eyebrow as he slips into view, “Instead of asking as soon as you came in the door.”

“It’s the police instinct in me,” Dick answers unapologetically.

“This is Damian al Ghul,” Bruce says, nodding at the scowling child sitting in the dining room in front of a bowl of rice, green beans and tofu, “He’s my son.”

“You adopted him already? Kinda fast. You didn’t do it in secret, did you?”

“No, he’s,” Bruce gets that constipated look he gets sometimes, like when he’s trying to figure out what ‘the Youtube’ is. “He’s _my son_.”

Dick furrows his eyebrows, “Wait a sec, you mean—“

“I had him back before I even took you in,” Bruce mumbles, “Found out about his existence today.”

“Holy shit.”

“It’s a bit of an adjustment,” Bruce says in his mild I’m-panicking-but-don’t-want-my-kids-to-know voice.

“No kidding,” _al Ghul, al Ghul, al Ghul… where have I heard that before?_ “Hey, kiddo. How are you holding up?”

“Call me kiddo again,” Damian says, stabbing his chopsticks into his rice, “and you will lose a hand.”

“He might not be joking,” Bruce says.

Of course. Bruce can’t pick up a normal kid, now can he? No, then he wouldn’t be Bruce.

“Cass would love you,” Dick laughs, propping his chin on his hands, “What do I call you, little one? Just Damian?”

“You may address me as heir,” Damian lifts his chin.

“Heir? H-e-i-r?”

“Yes.”

Dick exchanges glances with Bruce and sighs. Well, it’s better than that week when Jason pretended he was Hamlet and insisted on being addressed as _Prince Hamlet—unless you are taking the role of Horatio?_ looking hopeful that Dick would join in his playacting.

“Heir. To what?”

“The demon head,” Damian says. He stares at his rice and says, “I—if grandfather still wants me.”

Oh boy. Dick needs to squeeze the details out of Bruce later because this situation sounds… messy.

“I’m sure he still wants you, kiddo,” Dick says, and pulls his hand back just as a knife lands where his fingers used to be. “Hm, I see, violent tendencies, huh.”

“Don’t condescend me,” Damian snarls.

“I’m not trying to,” Dick hums, “Heir is a bit of a weird thing to call someone, it’ll take me some time to get used to. Be patient with me, okay, Dami?”

A chopstick this time, landing squarely on his forehead. That’s gonna bruise.

Dick laughs and rubs his forehead, “I hope you weren’t aiming for my eyes.”

“Had I been aiming for your eyes, it would have landed there.”

“How sweet,” Dick tucks his hands under his chin, “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t for you,” Damian sneers, “I could kill you in a heartbeat.”

“Mm-hm?” Bruce hums behind Dick, that way he does when he indulges one of his kids but doesn’t really believe them or knows otherwise.

“I could!” Damian scowls at his rice, “I’m Damian al Ghul, I’m—“ he glances at Dick and mumbles, “Can I have my chopstick back?”

Dick covers his smile with a hand and says, “I’ll get you a new one. Don’t throw any more knives—the next one might actually cut off my fingers.”

“That’s the point,” Damian says.

Dick laughs, “Well, let’s try to avoid that, shall we? I think a calm discussion would suffice. No need to jump to senseless bloodshed.”

“I am the _heir to the Demon head_ and I am _your superior_ and I will be given the respect owed to me—“

“Respect isn’t owed, Dami,” Dick picks the knife up and twirls it between his fingers. He opens the cupboard with his toes and tosses the knife into its place on the board, the thin blade slotting perfectly into its place. “It’s earned.”

Damian snorts and rolls his eyes, “I’m above you, my blood is strong. You can’t earn my respect.”

“I don’t need to,” Dick pulls a chopstick from the drawer and walks over to Damian’s seat. He gently sets the chopstick down and ruffles Damian’s hair. “I don’t need your respect.”

“Good,” Damian bites out, slapping Dick’s hand away, “You’ll never have it.”

Dick smiles at Bruce, “You certainly picked up a charmer. Well, Dami, welcome to the family. You know where you’re sleeping yet?”

Damian glances uncertainly at Bruce and then glares at Dick, “As I am Wayne’s true son and an al Ghul, it is an important matter that will take time to decide.”

“Can he take the room next to mine?” Dick asks, sliding over the counter and throwing an arm over Bruce’s shoulders. “It’ll be fun.”

“If Damian’s alright with it,” Bruce offers Damian a wry smile, “Dick is a bit much, I completely understand if you can’t handle him.”

Damian bristles, “I can handle anything.”

“Great,” Dick kisses Bruce’s cheek, then moves next to Damian, who pulls his face away before Dick can kiss his cheek. Dick leans back and laughs, “Not there yet? That’s fine. It’s Saturday, so we’ll be having Shakespeare night in the library after dinner—we’d be happy to have you join us.”

Damian sneers, “No thank you.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Dick smiles.

Damian bristles, “I can handle it.”

“Of course,” Dick agrees easily, “I have no doubt about that. But I get it—sometimes adjusting to a new place is hard, right? You need some space to yourself, some time to yourself—I get that. Our family can be a bit much. We won’t judge.”

“I’m fine,” Damian snarls, and shoves some rice into his mouth, “Leave me.”

Dick glances at Bruce, “I’ll give you the house tour later, then. Call me if you need any help, I’ll be in Jay’s room until then. Bruce can show you where it is.”

Damian doesn’t respond.

Ignoring him, then? Ah well. Like Dick said, he doesn’t need respect. He’ll take care of the kid, either way.

What a brat. He’ll fit right in.

__

_We won’t judge?_

Wayne’s eldest son must think he’s stupid. Every action is judged, weighed, held carefully—everything is seen, and so everything is weighed against Damian.

He’s too important _not_ to be judged—he has to be perfect. He has to be strong, he has to be flexible, he has to show that he deserves what he has, he can’t _fail_ —

But Damian’s already failed, hasn’t he?

What will his grandfather do—

Maybe his mother will look at him and finally realize he wasn’t worth protecting.

_Whatever you’re comfortable with?_

Who cares about comfort? He’s _fine_. Anything that happens, he can handle it, he’s not some _weakling_ —

They give him a room with a too soft bed and a dusty wooden desk.

“It’s the guest room,” his father— _Wayne_ —says, leaning against the doorframe, “If you want, you can bunk with someone else—I’m sure Dick would be fine with putting up with you until we get this room in better shape.”

“It’s fine,” Damian says, coldly, “I can handle it.”

Wayne gives him a strange look, “Just because you can handle something doesn’t mean you have to.”

Pity, Damian thinks. It was pity.

The thought fills him with anger.

“I can _handle it_ ,” he shouts, and immediately draws back, bracing for the inevitable fury, the cold words and colder hands—

He won’t apologize, though. Apologizing makes it even worse, and he—

Wayne only smiles though, a small, tired smile, and he reaches out and Damian stiffens but all Wayne does is ruffle Damian’s hair, like the eldest did while he was eating.

“Of course you can,” Wayne says warmly, “But sometimes we can handle things that we shouldn’t have to. It’s only an option, of course—an open one, though, for if you ever change your mind.”

“I won’t,” Damian glowers. Is this another test, of some sort? He doesn’t understand the rules here.

Wayne acts so soft. Damian thinks his grandfather must have been right. Wayne really is a weakling.

Does this mean Damian is less? Does this mean that Damian’s weakness comes from Wayne’s blood in his veins? Does Wayne’s weakness mean Damian’s weakness?

What is he supposed to do?

He failed. He failed his mission. He’s a failure.

Wayne took him in.

Damian failed a mission, _aborted mission,_ and then ran away—

He’s a traitor.

Wayne took in a traitor—

Traitors are to be killed, immediately.

But Damian is different, surely? Damian is the _heir_ , he’s _important_ , he’s not some lowly—

But Damian is a flawed creation. Damian has the blood of this weakling Wayne flowing through his veins, Damian failed his mission, Damian cried for the death of a bird, Damian wants a dog, Damian hates bloodshed, Damian couldn’t even kill _one person_ —

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Wayne’s voice, like running water, speaking.

Damian can’t hear.

Damian can’t hear a word.

All he hears is static.

He can’t focus, he can’t hear, he has to listen or he’ll be punished, he’s—

Wayne is holding him against his chest.

What’s going on? Is this some sort of… punishment? Damian can’t move until Wayne does? Will he hold him closer and closer until Damian can’t breathe, or is he going to crush Damian’s skull—

“It’s okay,” Wayne is saying, voice soft, heavy as velvet, “You’re okay.”

 _Okay_? What does that mean? Is this a test? Does Wayne mean he _passed_ the test? What was the test, then?

What does he—

Wayne pulls away.

Damian stays still. He feels too aware—his head feels too tight, his heartbeat too loud. He must be doing something wrong, though he doesn’t quite know what.

“Do you want me to stay?” Wayne asks quietly.

Wayne is weak, right? He wouldn’t—this probably isn’t a test. Wayne is probably too stupid to test Damian, too ordinary to realize how valuable Damian is—Wayne is compassionate and weak, right?

So it’s probably okay if Damian lets him stay, right?

But what if—on the off chance that he’s wrong—

“Do whatever you want,” Damian mumbles, half expecting to be struck down for his insolence as he walks into the room.

It’s so empty and dusty. Like the room of a dead man.

Maybe that’s who Damian would be, if Grandfather saw him now. Traitors are killed.

Wayne goes inside and looks around, and asks, “Would you like to sleep?”

Damian is exhausted. He would like to sleep. “It’s not night time, yet,” he says.

“You can take a nap.”

“I’m not so weak,” Damian says, “As to need such a thing.”

“It’s not weak to nap,” Wayne yawns, “I’m up for one, myself.”

“Then you go take a nap.”

“Alright,” Wayne offers Damian a tilted head, “Would you like to come?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Wayne says, and presses one large, heavy hand on Damian’s shoulder. Then he lifts it, without pushing down or squeezing too hard, and walks out. He leaves the door open.

Damian sits on the bed and stares.

The door is open.

But Wayne left him.

What is he supposed to do? Stay? Follow? What’s the right answer, here?

Horribly, in the twist of his stomach, Damian thinks that perhaps there _is_ no right answer. That the right answer was to complete his mission and return to his grandfather. And now that he’s gone off mission—Damian is automatically a failure.

Damian failed the test before he even met Wayne.

__

“Kinda empty,” Dick hums, glancing around the new kid’s bedroom. Well, it used to be the guest bedroom, so he supposes that makes sense. “Don’t worry, Dami, we’ll spruce it up a little soon.”

Bruce had immediately gone to get him after leaving the kid, saying that he worried he was making Damian uncomfortable and asked Dick to tag in.

Perfectly fine, since Dick had been planning to go up to talk to the kid more anyways.

“Call me heir,” Damian says, “You are not my equal.”

Dick resists the urge to roll his eyes and offers the kid a bright grin instead, “Oh, short stack, don’t be so down on yourself, you’ll grow taller than me, soon. I brought some tea,” he holds up the two mugs, “Added a little honey. You aren’t allergic, are you?”

“I’m lactose intolerant,” Damian informs him dutifully, taking a mug and giving it a decisive sniff, “Sugar in large amounts is unhealthy.”

“A spoonful of honey is good for you,” Dick hums, “No milk, so you don’t have to worry about that. Half the family’s lactose intolerant anyways, so it’s cool.”

Damian watches Dick like a hawk. For a moment, Dick wonders what he’s watching for, then thinks of the sniff that Damian gave the cup, and thinks, dumbly, _is he checking for poison_?

So Dick takes a big sip of his tea, makes a face, and says, “Ah, I accidentally boiled the water. I hope you don’t mind if it’s a bit bitter?”

Damian takes a sip of his own, face steel, and says, “I can manage.”

What a prim and proper kid. Dick hides a smile behind another sip, and says, “It’s a tough transition. When I first came, I was scared to even touch the spoons—it’s hard, finding your place in an unknown world.”

Damian, stiff as a board and nervous as a slacker before their finals, says, “I know my place. It’s at the top, no matter where I go.”

“Of course, of course,” Dick says, easily, lazily, holding up that bright, untouched image of himself that he tries to project. “That’s good. It’s just—well, maybe you don’t have this problem—but for most people, it’s hard when everything suddenly changes. Sometimes you panic, sometimes you lose focus, and it doesn’t feel like there’s any good reason for it, but that’s just how it is, you know? Well, I suppose you don’t.”

He sets his cup down. Damian’s eyes dart to his hands.

“That’s okay,” Dick stretches, “It’s human to feel those things, though, you know. It would be strange and horrible if you didn’t feel those things, I think. So if you do feel them—come talk to me.”

Damian is silent.

Dick—Dick doesn’t know what to say here. Of course he doesn’t. He’s never been in this kind of situation.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try his best.

“In the meantime,” Dick grins, “Have you ever played tag before?”

Damian stiffens, “Of course not. My training is not adequate—” he trails off and looks away, simmering in frustration.

Dick shoves down the question of what kind of messed up tag Damian has been playing, and says, “The rules are simple. One person is ‘it’. They chase the other players and try to touch someone. When you touch someone, they become the ‘it’ person, and they have to try to touch someone else to pass it on. Eventually everyone gets tired and whoever’s been it the least wins.”

“Sounds pointless,” Damian grunts.

“Maybe,” Dick shrugs, then leans over and presses Damian’s cheek, “You’re it!”

He shoots out the door and slides onto the bannister, years of practice keeping him balanced as he whoops down the railing. He nearly knocks over Jason, who shouts, “The fuck, dickhead?”

“Playing tag!” Dick shouts, breathless as he jogs back, “Damian’s it!”

“Damian? Who the fuck is—“

The kid comes barrelling down the staircase, leaping three steps at a time despite his short legs, catches sight of Jason and his expression freezes over for a moment before Dick shouts, “He’s playing, too!”

And Damian reaches out to shout, “You’re it!” and presses his tiny hand against Jason’s chest before leaping over the bannister and smoothly rolling onto the ground.

Bruce really knows how to pick them, but Dick barely has time to admire Damian’s parkour skills because Jason is leaping over the bannister too and Dick has to run, run, run.

“Follow me, Dames,” he shouts, waving a hand, and weaves down the hallway that doesn’t have any expensive art pieces (Alfie’s too used to their games of tag now not to have such places) and crashes into the Manor’s library.

Damian follows him with a confused, startled look, and Dick leads him to a spot behind the library stairs, where Tim’s trying to do his homework in peace.

“Tag,” Dick says, grinning, “Timmy, this is Damian. Damian, this is Tim.”

“Um,” Tim says, “I’m doing math right now so actually I can’t play—“

“Jay’s it,” Dick continues blithely, knowing that Tim will get roped in sooner or later and it’s bound to be sooner, “Dami, you’re doing great. Don’t worry, I’ll probably lose since everyone has a vendetta against me.”

“A vendetta?” Damian repeats, sounding horrified, and scoots away from Dick.

“Yeah,” Dick sighs, “I’ll probably get tickled or something. Absolutely awful.”

Damian looks scared.

Oh boy. How does he reassure the kid that losing won’t be a bad thing?

“It’s alright,” Dick reassures Damian, “Nobody really cares about win or lose. It’s about having fun.”

Damian scowls and says, loudly, “Ridiculous,” but when he thinks that Dick isn’t looking, mouths to himself _having fun?_ with his eyebrows furrowed together.

Damian’s loud declaration, of course, leads Jason to finding them, and he appears with a sharp grin as he lunges forward. Dick, moving back, shrieks and puts Tim up as a human shield.

Tim mumbles, “I did not drink enough coffee for this,” as Jason shouts _you’re it_ , and then immediately tries to get Dick.

Laughing, Dick dances away, and winks at Damian, “Fun, right?”

Damian looks mostly confused. Maybe a bit less worried. He’s less scowl-y, though, so that _hast_ to be a win, right?

Yeah.

A win.

__

The Wayne family is… strange.

The eldest, who introduced himself as, “Dick, Dick Grayson, call me anything you want”, pulled Damian into some strange… training exercise?… involving half the household. In the end, they only stopped because it was dinner time.

Even stranger, Grayson lost and didn’t seem to mind, laughing as his brothers tackled him onto the couch and squirming away within seconds.

The League wouldn’t have allowed such a failure to go unchecked. The League would have punished him, or trained him until he couldn’t stand, or—

The Manor is nothing like the League. Damian is learning that. It worries him.

Clearly, from their training—the way they _laughed_ during that dangerous hunting game—these people are not as ordinary or weak as they seem on the surface. But then why do they act how they act? What do they intend to do? What is their goal?

“Nothing,” Wayne says that night, when Damian asks, staring at the wall as he waits for the inevitable anger, punishment, _how can he not know such a simple thing_. “We just want to live our lives, really.”

He had declined Shakespeare night, waiting for the twist of anger, but they had just laughed and wished him a good night. Grayson said _you can join us, anytime you like_ with that easy, open smile on his face.

It was almost like they just wanted him to join them for the sake of it, and for nothing else.

But such things couldn’t be possible, right?

“And how would you live them?”

“In peace,” Wayne says, quietly, “Peace—nobody getting hurt—I would like that. Though it’s a bit of a silly dream, I suppose. How would you live your life, if you could choose?”

What a ridiculous question. “I don’t need to choose,” Damian says sharply, “I am the heir—“

“The heir to the demon head, I know,” Wayne says, softly, “I just—if it wasn’t already chosen for you. If you could have anything you wanted, any life you wanted. What would you want?”

Damian—of _course_ he wants his inheritance, as is his duty, as is his right—

His stupid, weak mind, goes to the dead bird in his mother’s hands.

“I would like to live without killing birds,” he says, and wonders if that is a safe answer. If that is the answer that will break Wayne, if that is the answer that will make him snap and realize that Damian is nothing. That Damian, for all his blood and heritage, is weak with compassion. That Damian is soft.

Wayne hums, and says, “That’s how we live, here. I don’t like animals getting hurt, and neither does my family. We would really prefer if you didn’t harm any creatures, including birds, much less kill them.”

Oh.

The Waynes operate by strange rules, by a strange game that Damian doesn’t know how to play.

How does he cover up his foolishness? Hide his mistake? Cover the fact that he didn’t know such a thing?

“It’s okay,” Wayne says, before Damian can think of a proper answer, “These things—it’s different, isn’t it? From Talia’s world. That’s okay. It took me a year to learn her rules—it may take you a year to learn mine. We can wait. We do not need endless knowledge—only a willingness to learn.”

Is it so simple? To simply be willing to learn, and that is all that is asked of him?

Surely nobody would have such a small rule. Surely nobody would—

Wayne is strange, Damian thinks.

He is starting question if the strangeness is bad or not.

__

The next week passes slowly, yet it feels like he’s been caught in a whirlwind. The next few days, he meets the rest of the family, and tries to commit their faces and names to memory despite all the information being thrown at him.

He is the heir. He must adapt.

He _can_ adapt. He is strong.

Grayson and Wayne are the one who are with him the most, but Damian likes their servant, Pennyworth, and comes to know Wayne’s many sons, his daughter, and the two pseudo-daughters who often come to the Manor.

Timothy Drake stares at him, squints, and mumbles, “Okay, then,” before mechanically polishing off his mug of coffee.

He doesn’t try to say any more to Damian, which immediately makes Damian like him more.

Jason Todd, Damian comes to find, is louder than he seems at first. He’s quiet most of the time, reading or working on something, but when a member of their family comes in, he immediately acts as enthusiastic and loud as Grayson. It’s somewhat tiring but mostly manageable.

Cassandra is the one who surprises Damian.

He sees her for a moment, falters, and thinks _Cain_?

Impossible.

“Been a while,” she says, ruffling his hair, “My name is Cassandra, now.”

Damian’s stomach flips. She must be a traitor, too. “Cain, what are you—“

“Cassandra, now,” she repeats, more firm, a little angry, and he barely suppresses his flinch. He knows that she sees it anyways. They had always taken pride in that—that she could see anything, “Who are you, now?”

“I’m the same I always was,” he says, voice wavering in a way that it wouldn’t with anyone else, “I’m the heir to the demon head.”

“You want that?” Cassandra asks, “If you stay here, you can get a dog.”

It’s horribly childish. Like taunting a baby with a rattle toy.

(What does it say, that Damian’s chest aches for that? For something so small, so petty as a _pet_ —)

“I don’t need a dog.”

“Don’t need,” Cassandra agrees lightly, “But it would be nice.”

“I have a purpose, I am made for greater things—“

“Conquering the world, yes, yes,” Cassandra rolls her eyes, as though such things are small, unimportant. Damian doesn’t _understand_. “What will you do once it’s conquered?”

What—what will he do?

He’ll stand by his grandfather and mother’s side of course, he’ll be in power, he can have whatever he wants—

So long as he listens to his grandfather.

So long as he obeys his grandfather’s orders.

Surely—surely once they win, he can have a dog. He’ll have as many as he want, and servants to take care of them, and he can have entire sanctuaries full of birds and—

“Of course someone so small minded as you would ask such a question,” he snarls, but his throat is tight. The question stays in his mind, a haunting refrain.

What will he do, after?

Why is this so important?

The world—is he so keen to see it destroyed? Reworked? What’s the point—

The point? The _point_? Why is he asking stupid questions? Such things would have gotten him punished in the League, such things are not for him to think of, he’s just a pawn in a larger game—

No, he’s not a pawn, he’s _important_ —

Isn’t he?

And those less important people, like Grayson and Wayne and Pennyworth and Cain, then just—they will listen to him, when they see how powerful he is, they will _respect him_ —

 _Respect is earned_ , Grayson said. Damian will make him give it on his knees.

That’s what he wants.

…Right?

__

“Vitamins and minerals,” Todd says when he sees Damian glancing at the two pill bottles on the counter.

“Why not just eat food?” Damian demands, ripping his eyes away, ashamed for having looked, for having seems so ignorant.

Part of him thinks _don’t ask questions. You’ll look stupid, and then you’ll look weak, and then you’ll be punished_.

The part of him that has grown louder over the past few weeks says _Wayne is weak and his family seems to enjoy being asked questions_.

“I didn’t get enough nutrients before B took me in,” Todd says, popping a pill in his mouth and washing it down with water. “Supplements are part of my diet now, thanks to that.”

“They’re a prescription,” Damian says flatly, disgusted. More weakness, and Todd flaunts it so openly, as though he doesn’t even _care_ that he’s showing Damian a weak point.

“Well, yeah,” Jason pushes the cap back onto the bottle, “B’s a doctor, so he knows this kinda stuff. And he did a bunch of research on it for me. Tim has supplements, too, though he only has one, since he got off lighter than me. He has some stuff for his missing appendix and spleen, though—I don’t know. I can’t keep track of it all.”

How does Damian respond to this? Is Todd stupid? Does he not realize that Damian could simply take those bottles away, steal them and leave him weakened? He can’t really be so naive.

(Damian ignores the part of him that says _you won’t hurt him, though. You wouldn’t do it_ because that means weakness, that means—)

“Why not just kill you?” Damian finds himself asking instead, “Wayne could have just killed you and you might have been the better for it—why take you in, wasting his time and resources?”

Todd raises an eyebrow, amused. Damian wants to rip that smile off his face. “People aren’t numbers on a page, kiddo. Bruce didn’t take me in for his benefit, he took me in for _mine_.”

What’s the point of that? Clearly he’s inspired some sort of loyalty, but why?

What’s the point of compassion without an end goal?

“He didn’t need to,” Damian mumbles.

He hates this—this uncertainty. How he phrases things as questions now. How he _listens_ —how he _wants_ to listen, how he wants to understand this strange and new world—these strange people.

Damian is supposed to be _strong_. Damian is supposed to know, Damian is supposed to have the answers, he’s not supposed to ask questions, that’s—

“No,” Todd agrees, “Nobody _needs_ to be kind, on the surface level. But that’s just what makes us human, I suppose.”

Damian snorts, disgusted, “We are human through our biology.”

“And verified through our actions,” Todd hums.

Is that an agreement? A disagreement? “Stop speaking in riddles.”

A quiet laugh, “Don’t mean to. Sorry, kid,” Todd ruffles his hair, “Guess I just don’t know how to explain that you should be nice to people. I haven’t figured it all out yet, either—I’m a pretty selfish guy, what can I say? But the more you see people like Bruce—the more you want to be like that, I think. That’s all.”

Damian snorts, “I don’t need to be like anyone else, I’m already perfect. Wayne is beneath me.”

“It’s fine to think that,” Todd places his supplements back in the fridge, finishes his water and washes the cup. “But you know, there’s always two choices in life. The choice to open ourselves to learning, or the choice to regret our ignorance.”

“I’m not ignorant,” Damian hisses, “And I will regret nothing. _You_ , on the other hand—“

“I’m not saying that you are,” Todd agrees, lightly, “Really, the fact that you’re asking questions is already good enough. Just—sometimes you have to look at yourself and ask _who do I want to be_? And it takes a while to answer that, of course, but once you know—nobody can take that away from you.”

Damian sneers, “Trying to act philosophical? Please.”

Quiet laughter as Todd shakes his head and puts his cup away to dry, “You’re really something, huh, demon brat.”

“I am _heir to the demon head_ —“

“Is that what you want? To always be waiting to inherit someone else’s power, someone else’s glory, someone else’s life? Seems awfully boring to me,” Jason pats Damian’s shoulder, “Well, that’s just me. I have piano lessons now, I’ll be back by dinner.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s just good to know,” Jason smiles at Damian, “I try not to miss Alfie’s cooking.”

“I don’t care.”

Todd’s laughter is louder this time as he turns away and walks out the door.

__

“What happened?” Damian asks Wayne, beside him as they slowly move through _kata_. There’s no real point to them, but Wayne finds them calming and Damian figures it’s better than nothing, since Wayne refuses to spar with him.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Wayne says, though he knows, and Damian knows that he knows, and he knows that Damian knows that he knows.

“To her,” Damian’s trembling. He can’t pretend it’s from exhaustion but it’s better than admitting this weakness, this compassion, his _concern_. “My target. Did you just—cremate her? Did she have a proper burial?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Wayne’s voice adopts that heavy, even, velvet quality from before.

Damian thinks he hates him for it. For this softness—this compassion. As though Damian needs protecting. As though Damian is somehow still a child.

“I know that she killed herself,” Damian says, sharp and angry and—grieving?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

No wonder Grandfather hates him.

“She asked that we deposit her in an alley,” Wayne says quietly, “So that it looks like you—“

So it looks like he did his job.

How pathetic. He needs traitors to protect him.

Damian kicks the floor, moves forward in a forceful punch that would never do well in battle. It feels like there’s a scream bottled in his chest, screwed tight and shoved down.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Waynes says.

It wasn’t his fault? _It wasn’t his fault?_ “It doesn’t matter,” Damian says, and tries to make himself believe it, _believe it, believe it—_ “I should have killed her from the start.”

“It’s not a weakness to spare a life, Damian,” Wayne says softly, “It’s strength.”

Strength? Damian scoffs. Only a weakling like Wayne would say such a thing.

He doesn’t _understand_.

Damian may be a child, but even he knows—the strong are the ones who survive. Who will do anything to rise to the top.

“Spare me your platitudes,” Damian says, walking away, “Pretty words won’t raise the dead.”

Maybe he does feel guilty—maybe he does blame himself—

What would be the point of that? Isn’t it stupid? It would have been good, if he had killed her, it would have been to his credit—right?

__

“Take me with you,” Damian says, heart pounding, eyes on his father.

“To the hospital?” Wayne asks, “You know that I can’t break doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Damian snorts, “I don’t care about the hospital. I mean when you’re _Batman_. A warrior.”

“I’m hardly a warrior,” Wayne says, amused, as though speaking to an imaginative child. “I’m simply doing my part to help.”

“Take me anyways,” Damian says. Surely Wayne isn’t all weak. Surely Wayne has some strength in him—he’s Damian’s father, after all.

Wayne stretches, hums, and says, “Ask Tim if you can borrow his Robin suit for the night.”

Damian thinks that’s a victory.

Drake gives it up easily, saying that “it was mostly for the kids—in the shelters or orphanages. They loved the bright colours” and laughs when Damian sneers.

“I am not a court jester,” Damian says, staring at the brightly coloured uniform, “I am a warrior.”

“Sure, sure,” Drake says, “They amount to the same thing, in our line of work.”

Damian doesn’t understand what Drake means, but hates him for it.

__

There is a girl, sitting at the edge of the rooftop.

There is a fight out there, to be fought. Criminals to be stopped.

Batman sits down next to the girl and Robin begrudgingly follows.

“Nice night,” Batman says, voice weary gravel. “Though you’ve chosen a bit of a dangerous seating place to appreciate the night sky.”

“I’m thinking,” the girl says, tilting her head back to stare at the stars, faint through the polluted sky. “Should I call my mom and say goodbye? Or will that make it worse?”

“Which option are you leaning towards?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt her anymore than necessary.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s selfish of me. I love her too much.”

“Nothing is purely selfless, probably,” Batman hums, “Side-effect of existing as a human being.”

Quiet laughter. “Are you stalling?”

“I’m just doing my best,” Batman says, “As we all are.”

“Hm,” the girl closes her eyes, “You should leave. I don’t want my death on your conscience.”

“Then don’t do it tonight.”

“I’m tired of waiting.”

“Just a little longer.”

She stretches out a hand, to the sky, and says, “You’re so kind, Batman. You’re doing a good job, you know that? You don’t have to do this.”

“Of course I do,” Batman says.

Robin is silent as they talk.

He doesn’t know how long the conversation goes—minutes? Hours? It feels like an eternity and nothing.

Some of it is desperation. _Please stay alive. Please do not jump_.

Some of it is nonsense. _What’s your favourite book? Isn’t math class hard? I always wanted to learn Korean._

In the end, the girl stands, holding Batman’s hand, and says, “I’ll keep waiting. And I’ll call my mom.”

“Good,” he says, “Call that number I gave you. It’s free and it can’t hurt to try.”

“Okay,” she breathes, and does not jump.

Batman saved a life, Damian thinks.

Batman just talked and listened and in doing so, he stoppered death.

Batman is not a warrior. He is not a jester.

But Damian is beginning to think perhaps he is something even more important.

__

Wayne is gone for most of the day for his day job as a doctor, and then gone for a fair amount of night as Batman.

“It’s inefficient,” Damian mumbles in the garden, watching as Pennyworth trims the trees and clears out dead branches.

“This method of clearing the garden?” Pennyworth asks, an amused twist to his lips.

“ _Batman_ ,” Damian says, staring at his hands. They’ve gotten soft, over his stay at the Manor. Each day is a day away from the League, away from his training—his callouses from holding his sword have mostly healed— _weak, weak, weak. Return to the League. Why dally here, wasting your time?_

“It is quite time consuming,” Pennyworth agrees, “How do you find it inefficient?”

“He can spend his patrol time fighting criminals—if he killed criminals, he could wipe them out and make people fear him. Instead he wastes his time—what, helping street children? Talking useless people off the edge of rooftops?”

“Nobody is useless, my boy,” Pennyworth’s tone is mild, but his voice is hard as steel. “And I believe we are better served through kindness than violence.”

Damian snorts, “And what’s the point of that?”

“The point of kindness? Merely that we are human, and each human being is worth something of value, I suppose. Some say they are kind in the hopes of having it repaid—others, like Levinas, believed that we had a duty to be good to others.”

“What about you?”

“What about me? I’m simply an old man. What would I know of this world and how we are to act as humans?”

“You must have some thoughts,” Damian says, feeling ridiculous to ask—Pennyworth is right, why bother? He’s lower than Damian, anyways.

“Of course I do. Would you like to hear them?”

Damian looks away, “I don’t care,” he snaps, “But if you’d like to speak, I’ll be gracious enough to humour you.”

Quiet laughter, and Pennyworth says, “Then I shan’t disturb you, young master.”

Damian’s cheeks burn and he’s thankful that his skin doesn’t redden as he stares at the crack in the cobblestone path where the grass pokes through.

He can’t push the subject now, or he’ll seem foolish—

Why does he care? Why is he asking such things? The thoughts of people below him shouldn’t matter—

But he should be willing to learn, to better himself—

Damian is meant to be the perfect heir.

He’s meant to be obedient, not ask questions, yet know everything. He’s meant to be strong, train hard, be commanding but subservient to his grandfather, he’s meant to be _perfect_ in every way. He’s meant to show no compassion, be quick and—

He’s starting to think such a thing does not exist.

He’s starting to think that such a thing does not _need_ to exist.

But if he doesn’t need to be the heir—if he isn’t so important—then what is he left to be?

What’s left of him?

Is he even a person? Is he—

What is Damian, besides his grandfather’s successor?

__

“Blueberry waffles,” Brown says as Wayne takes the stitches out of her leg, “When can I have them?”

“As soon as you want,” Wayne offers her a slight, faint smile (and Damian does not feel jealous that it isn’t directed at him, not at all). “Your leg wound won’t affect your digestive processes. I didn’t realize you would take my joke seriously.”

“It wasn’t a joke, bossman,” Brown whines, “You looked ready to ground me, and you aren’t even my dad.”

Wayne mouths _I’m not?_ And Brown pinches her fingers together.

“I should have grounded you,” Wayne is biting back a sigh, Damian knows by the lift of his voice, “And what made you think that you should climb the side of your university building to get to class?”

“Climbing up was a piece of cake,” Brown says brightly, “It was my idea to slide down after class _ended_ that got me.”

“Thankfully you have no complications,” Wayne says, “But you should not come back after a repeat performance, Miss Brown.”

“Well, I’m fine, right?”

“Fortunately.”

“Then it was a perfect victory,” Brown flashes Damian a peace sign.

“Right,” Wayne sighs now, “That’s the complete opposite of what I just told you.”

“I’m a college student, we don’t listen,” Brown beams at Damian, “Hey, how you feel about getting shaved ice after this?”

“Sounds unhealthy,” Damian sneers.

“Great,” Brown laughs, “It’s a plan, then.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

“But you think it tastes good, right?”

“I need to keep my body in optimal form—“

“No, you don’t,” Brown laughs, “It’s cool. Nothing wrong with treating yourself every once in a while.”

“It’s not a treat if it harms my body,” Damian frowns at her.

Brown turns to Wayne and raises her eyebrows.

Wayne tilts his head to the side and purses his lips together.

Brown scrunches up her nose.

Wayne offers a faint smile.

Brown sighs and turns to Damian, “What if I buy you some watermelon and myself some shaved ice, and you _have to agree_ to have at least one bite of my shaved ice but I won’t force you into anything else if you don’t like its taste.”

Damian scowls at Wayne, offers him a grateful nod, and says, “I will agree to this deal. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Brown agrees brightly, accepting, and knees Wayne with her non-injured leg, “How is it, doc, will I live?”

Wayne buries his face in his hands.

Damian, who has become strangely, horrifyingly comfortable, bites down the urge to laugh.

__

Barbara Gordon, Damian thinks to himself, could be a good subordinate if she weren’t so… like _that_.

Willful? Independent? Kind?

Whatever the case, she’s a _menace_.

“Wow, Jay,” she says, rolling into the library in her admittedly gorgeously high-tech wheelchair, “Leather jacket _and_ a bandaid on your nose? Laying the delinquent look on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

“I walk into _one_ doorway,” Todd grumbles, “And I never have any peace.”

“Uh-huh,” Gordon taps her cheek, “What’s this, also from a door?”

Todd mumbles something under his breath.

“Hm, sorry, didn’t hear you?”

“I said that I got in a fight.”

“Mm-hm. Let me guess, Shakespeare again?”

“Gatsby, this time.”

Gordon cackles, “You _nerd_.”

“You’re literally a librarian, Babs! You can’t judge me!”

“ _I’m_ not getting into fistfights over _Gatsby_ ,” Gordon snorts, and turns to Damian, “You, hm, let’s start with… Calvin and Hobbes?”

“I’m not going to waste my time on _comic strips_ ,” Damian hisses, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Uh-huh,” Gordon wheels over to the bookshelves, “Wow, a bit of a snob, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a _snob_ , I simply don’t waste my time on pointless and childish things—“

“You know what they say,” Gordon plucks a volume from the bookshelf, “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover. That’s how you maintain ignorance, you know.”

“I’m not _ignorant_ ,” Damian bristles.

“Oh, really?”

He sneers at her.

“Good,” Gordon beams, and deposits a collection of Calvin and Hobbes strips in his lap, “Then you’ll be fine proving that by reading this?”

“I don’t need to _prove myself to you_ —“

“If you really learn nothing from this,” Gordon taps the book, “Then I will do whatever you want.”

And Damian’s not _stupid_. She’s clearly baiting him. But if she truly believes so earnestly that he might be able to learn something from it—

“Fine,” he snaps, snatching the book from her hands, “I’ll read it.”

(And it stings his pride to admit this: but he loves it.)

__

His mother comes on a cool, windy day, where the sun is bright but offers no warmth, where the sky is bluer than the seas, yet Damian still shivers when he opens his window that morning.

She is lithe, elegant, no nonsense as she saunters into the Wayne Manor and curls her lip at Pennyworth.

Damian is suddenly aware of his heart in his chest, pounding too fast.

“Talia,” Wayne says, voice cool, sharp in a way that he had never used with Damian. “I was expecting you earlier.”

“My father is furious,” his mother answers, and Damian standing beside Pennyworth, shaping a peanut butter cookie in his hands, is suddenly aware of how _inadequate_ , how pathetic he must seem to her, in that moment. “I had to calm him down before coming to collect my son.”

“Our son, you mean?” Wayne asks.

“You had no part in raising him.”

“I wasn’t aware he existed.”

“Perhaps if you had stayed—“

“You know I couldn’t have.”

His mother sniffs, “Then it’s not my fault that you didn’t know. You chose to leave.”

“I chose to leave the League. Not a _child_ whose existence you didn’t see prudent to inform me of.”

“I didn’t come to squabble with a failure. I came to collect Damian,” she looks at him, expression knowing, “Father believes you succeeded in your mission, and is willing to forgive your little… mistake, of going to your father instead of immediately returning home.”

She knows.

Of course she knows.

His mother always seems to know Damian’s inadequacies.

He puts down the dough in his hands and goes to wash them at the sink. Penny worth places a hand on his shoulder, not enough to harm, but firm enough to make him stay still.

He should cut off Pennyworth’s hand for this offence. Or at least shrug the hand off. He knows, by now, that the Waynes would never hurt him—they are too kind, too soft.

Instead Damian stays still.

Later, Pennyworth will thank him for that. Later, Damian will realize this is what Grayson meant by respect being earned. Later, Damian will realize that he had given his respect to the Waynes far more quickly than he thought possible.

Right now, his mother says, coldly, “Come, Damian.”

“Will I get weekends?” Wayne asks, light, tense, hands loose by his side. It’s a joke, Damian thinks. He isn’t sure.

Wayne, for all that he is foolishly kind, is not a stupid man.

His mother laughs. Wayne is beneath her. (Or at least that’s what she thinks.)

(When has—when has Damian started considering the Waynes his equal? Pennyworth someone deserving of respect? When has this started? How could he betray his mother and grandfather even further, like this, how could he—)

(Why is Damian such a _failure_?)

(Why is he proud of his flaws?)

(When did he become grateful to have such weak points as compassion and—)

“Leave Damian with me,” Wayne says, “You can come visit.”

His mother, snarling, “He belongs to _me_ —“

“He belongs to nobody,” Wayne tilts his head and says, “Damian, would you mind staying with Jay in the library for a bit while I talk to your mother? You can stay if you really want, but I would rather you not see this.”

 _She’s going to kill him_ , is what Damian thinks in that moment, blood rushing to his ears, _he doesn’t want me to see him die_.

Immediately, he thinks, _no, that’s ridiculous, he wouldn’t do that_ , and tries to summon anger, _he’s just treating me like a child_.

It doesn’t feel condescending, though. It feels like—care. Protection. Compassion.

(When did compassion become a good thing?)

He looks at Pennyworth.

(When did he start looking to others to help him make decisions?)

Pennyworth gives a small nod, and pushes his back.

Damian, coward, goes to the library while his parents talk.

__

 _Talia al Ghul_ , Jason’s first observation, _is a striking woman_.

Talia al Ghul, Jason’s first _thought_ , needs to leave his newest little brother the fuck alone.

Are Jason and Damian supposed to be quietly waiting in the library? Well. Bruce never gave a direct order…

Dick popped in to check on them, so Jason’s being here, standing behind Bruce and glaring daggers at Talia, isn’t really doing any harm. Damian probably would feel more comfortable with Dick more anyways, Jason always had a way of sticking his foot in his mouth in the most stressful situations.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what Ra’s is planning for him,” Bruce says, “You’re too clever for that, Talia.”

“It’s for the best,” Talia answers coldly, “Damian is far too weak. That caretaker of his ruined his potential as a weapon, and my father taking his body is a compliment, really.”

“In what fucking world—“ Jason starts, but Bruce squeezes his hand and he shuts his mouth, simmering.

“Why not offer your own?”

“ _I’m_ not the defective one, Bruce. And besides, my body brings its own difficulties. Perhaps if I were a son—”

This is so gross. Why is she talking about it so carelessly, like it’s nothing? Like Damian isn’t a _person_?

“Damian is my son,” Bruce says cooly, “Not Ra’s. Mine. Technically, I should have care of him.”

And Jason gets it, really, that Bruce has to use Talia’s logic, Talia’s words, to get her to agree with it, but he still hates hearing this.

“You?” Talia laughs, a harsh, mocking thing, “Oh come on, Bruce. You should know better than that. You’re so—” she flutters her fingers, “Quaint and small. Damian was made for bigger things.”

“Death?” Jason asks, bathed in cold fury, “Your son was made for death?”

“He was made for a greater purpose,” Talia locks eyes with Jason, “The people of the past used human sacrifices to appease the gods—we use one to create gods. It’s really not so different.”

“The people of the past were wrong to do so.”

“Interesting thing for a Classics major to say.”

Jason wants to strangle her.

“Stop riling him up,” Bruce says, “Jason, why don’t you tap out with Alfred? I think Damian needs you more than I do.”

Jason wants to stay. It’s easier to be angry than be kind. It’s easier to hurt than hold someone’s hand as they heal.

But he trusts Bruce, who found him as Batman and helped him as Dr. Wayne and adopted and loved him as Bruce.

He trusts his dad, so he says, “Love you,” while glaring at Talia, and stalks out to get Alfred.

Alfred will put her in her place. Alfred and Bruce will fix this. He knows it’s childish to think so, but it’s hard to break the habit of thinking they’ll fix everything, when they always do.

__

His mother does not give him much before she leaves. Or rather, she does not say much. She thinks perhaps it is because of Wayne.

His father.

Because of his father.

“I don’t approve,” she says, brisk, to the point, before leaning down and kissing his cheek. “But if you are willing to sacrifice the world for this small happiness, then who am I to oppose it?”

She looks disgusted. It is against their ways, their everything.

Damian’s traitor heart is grateful.

“I am sorry,” he says, because that is all he can offer, all he is willing to offer, because Damian, ridiculously, horribly, wants to stay.

“Then you are the worse for it,” his mother says, short, clipped, “If you are to fight back and go against the will of another, you should at least stand strong and unbending for your ideals.”

“He’s a child,” Grayson says, “We do not have to be unbending. We only have to live on another day.”

His mother snorts, disgusted.

Damian would have been, too. Now, he takes a quiet comfort in that. That he only has to live. No other expectations. Untethered and free in that he exists, and that is all that is needed of him.

“Thank you, mother,” Damian says. He wonders if he will ever see her again.

Likely not. His mother is not a woman who wastes her time—especially not on something so trivial as sentiment.

“Yes,” his mother says. Her expression is distant, blank.

He wonders, childishly, if she hates him.

Then, immediately, he thinks, she must not. Hatred is such a petty thing, after all, requiring so much energy—his mother is an efficient woman.

Damian is not a tragedy, he is not a loss—he is simply excess fat that she is cutting out, right now.

It shouldn’t hurt so much as it does, thinking of it like that.

It’s only logical, it’s only—

“Stop that crying,” his mother says, disgusted, “You must accept that which you are given, and be grateful to have what you have chosen.”

 _I’m sorry_ , Damian thinks, but the words are stuck in his throat. He tries to tell himself it’s because of the tears, but he knows it’s because he isn’t sorry.

He’s a bit angry, even.

 _Let me cry_ , he thinks. _Let me mourn_.

Mourn what? What is he losing? What has died?

His mother is leaving. He knows she won’t come back. He means nothing to her, now.

Wayne holds him against his chest, firm, steady, and Damian hears, rather than sees, the door click shut behind his mother.

Does he regret it? No.

Does it still hurt?

…Damian won’t admit it, yet. At least, not out loud.

__

His father brings him to an animal shelter.

Damian loves them all, but he sees two, a mother missing a leg and her overly energetic puppy, and says _these_.

His father says, “Good choices,” and adopts them, dropping a sizeable donation to the shelter on their way out.

“What is this meant to be?” Damian asks, holding the puppy in his arms as the mother presses her nose against the size of his stomach, sitting in the car. “An apology? Something to distract me?”

“It’s what I promised you,” his father says, “I told you that I would get you a dog, didn’t I?”

Damian had forgotten. He didn’t think—

“Thank you,” he whispers.

A wry smile in the rearview mirror, “How gracious of you. I didn’t think you’d humble yourself so willingly.”

“I chose you, did I not?” Damian asks, throat burning, holding his dogs close to his chest, “I chose this.”

“You did,” his father agrees. The next red light, he leans back and kisses Damian’s forehead, “Thank _you_.”

 _For what?_ Damian thinks, baffled. For choosing this? For staying? For what?

He does not ask the questions on the tip of his tongue. He does not think he can accept the answer.

Instead he buries his face in his puppy’s fur and asks, “What should I name them?”

“It’s up to you,” his father answers.

“I’ll think about it.”

He doesn’t have to know right now. He doesn’t have to have all the answers. He just has to keep going on the path he has chosen for himself.

This, him, holding the puppy, petting its mother, this is enough.

Damian al Ghul is a failure.

That’s okay.

Damian Wayne is content.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you kiddos are doing well, drinking water, eating food, sleeping, etc. I don't really plan to continue writing in this au especially since I borrowed it, but I had so much fun with it that, if goldkirk lets me, I might write more. Don't forgot to depend on people yeah? It's okay to need to lean on someone, it's okay to seek outside help--you aren't a bad person for doing so.


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